


Take Off Your Boots, Babe

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s always had a weakness for wild things. Willas had shared his cradle with his first hound, a pup he’d later clung to as he took his first faltering steps, at least according to family tales. Hounds, horses, falcons, even once an orphaned fox kit he’d found still nursing at its dead dam; he’s always had an affinity for anything with fangs or claws or feathers.</p><p>It seems Arya Stark is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Off Your Boots, Babe

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: While his family believed Willas would be attracted to gentle, romantic Sansa, it's Arya that he finds himself drawn to. They bond over horses and hounds and he loves how she scandalizes his family.

He’s always had a weakness for wild things. Willas had shared his cradle with his first hound, a pup he’d later clung to as he took his first faltering steps, at least according to family tales. Hounds, horses, falcons, even once an orphaned fox kit he’d found still nursing at its dead dam; he’s always had an affinity for anything with fangs or claws or feathers.

It seems Arya Stark is no exception.

She confounds his family entirely. Willas rather enjoys it. He loves them, but it’s more than a little satisfying to see them thrown off balance from time to time. They’re used to pretty manners and polite fictions, veiled intentions and sly ambition. Arya couldn’t be less like a Tyrell if she tried.

She rides like she was born to a horse. When they ride together, they are matched, two wild things escaping their earthly bounds and limitations, running and flying as they were meant to do. When they ride, Willas has four good legs instead of one, and a willing heart to match hers. She always outpaces him. Willas has lost count of the times he’s watched her surge ahead with Nymeria at her side, her voice drifting back on the wind as she laughs and calls to him, the sound as light and young as she truly is, a girl of only ten and six for all that she’s seemed older from the moment they met.

At first Willas tried to be mindful of her youth, to touch her with the same gentle care he affords skittish horses and wounded birds. He’d begun the eve of their wedding with sweet words and soft movements, only for her to laugh at him as she bore him down to their bed with her lips on his and her tongue in his mouth. She kissed like she was fighting, and fucked just the same, and Willas had been left breathless and astonished and happy. The softer he is with her, the more wildly she responds, and he can never seem to get enough.

“You Tyrells are so delicate,” she says. His wrists are pinned by her knees, her cunt warm and wet on his belly. Her nails score parallel tracks down his chest. “A bunch of hothouse flowers.” Willas can’t disagree. He can’t remember just what his mother was teary about over luncheon, but it was surely something frivolous.

“We can’t all grow up in the wild, wintry North like you.” Willas tries not to grin at her like a besotted fool, but he fails, and he can feel his cheeks scrunching up absurdly.

“At least it makes you warm,” she says. Her hips move down, her flesh sliding slick over his cock, back and forth, back and forth, until he has to bite back a groan. “Very. Very. Warm.” Willas closes his eyes at the sensations: the bite of her teeth on his lips, the feel of her small hand on his cock guiding him, the soft, wild heat of being inside her. Arya rides him like she rides a horse, fast, hard, instinctively. He doesn’t know what men haunt her past and he’d never ask. That’s not what they do. It’s not who they are. Arya is a creature of the present, Arya is _now_ , and now is too good to spoil with anything that came before. She sets her teeth to his neck when she comes and for half a second, Willas thinks she might rip his throat out like her direwolf would with prey. By the time her shudders abate, his neck is well and truly marked, actually throbbing, almost as much as his still-hard cock is where it’s buried inside her, and she switches her mouth to the other side with a feral growl and begins to move again.

“I see your little she-wolf likes to bite,” Margaery notes slyly over supper, pursing her lips in that kittenish smirk of hers. Willas feels his cheeks turn red as he fingers the tender spot on his neck like it’s Arya herself he’s touching. They’d arrived late to the great hall, after the first course had already been cleared, and judging by the amused look on Margaery’s face –and the horrified look on his mother’s– everyone knows precisely why. Arya meets his gaze from across the table. She couldn’t have heard Margaery’s words, but Willas imagines she can guess the gist, given the look on his face and the way his fingers stroke her mark on his neck. Her smile is faint and soft, barely giving any hint of her ferocity in bed.

“You know how I am,” Willas says to Margaery, eyes never once leaving Arya’s. “I have a soft spot for wildness.”


End file.
